


say it with your eyes

by arabmorgan



Series: Three Little Words [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 05:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabmorgan/pseuds/arabmorgan
Summary: Lucio doesn't know what to make of you.





	say it with your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wanted to do the smut thing but it didn't work out that way.

Most days Lucio doesn’t know what to make of you – this odd, incomprehensible little chit who’s somehow snuck your way into his life, asking nothing in return but what little decency he has left to give.

Not that he’s ever known very much about decency. He’s killed for power, bargained and burned and even married for power, and whatever has been asked of him in return has never had anything to do with _niceness_. Not till now, not till you.

He’d waited for the demands, for what you’d ask in return for the ironic favour of giving him his freedom by binding him to you. He’d been ready to help you scheme and poison and manipulate, but nothing of the sort had ever come.

You’d let him kiss you instead. Him, fearsome Count Lucio who’d dealt with the Devil himself. _Stupid _Count Lucio who’d earned himself nothing more than being stuck in his old burnt wing for years, incorporeal and powerless. You’d found out about the stomach-turning deal and kissed him all the same.

He doesn’t know what to make of you – this unassuming magician who wields the unexplainable at your fingertips, who walks with power thrumming in your veins without even giving it a second thought.

It’s infuriating. He’s never liked power in others.

He’d known Valerius had wanted his palace and position and power – the silly boy had never been as smart or subtle as he’d imagined himself to be, and Lucio had toyed with him for even daring to dream that dream. It had always been a power struggle between them, all sweat and grunts and angry snarls.

“Who rules you?” he’d murmur, sweet and deadly as his golden fingers pressed against the long column of Valerius’ neck. “Tell me, who rules you?” And he’d press down harder with every painful thrust, Valerius growling under him, nails digging into his flesh arm, face growing redder and redder with every passing second of stubbornly maintained silence.

Until finally he’d gasp, “_You_, my lord. You,” and Lucio would relent, his fingers loosening as he moaned and found his release, Valerius’ wheezes music to his triumphant ears.

It’s different with you. You’d defended him against the Devil himself, power flashing bright as he’d stood back, desperate and helpless, and he thinks he should be jealous at the memory. He should hate it, the knowledge that you can wrest control from him at any moment, that you can blast him to pieces with a single thought.

But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t know why.

He never knows what to make of you – you with your bright eyes and easy smiles and effortless charm. It makes his own practiced humour seem clumsy and crude, his enticing smirks just a tad too sharp to be genuine. Beside you, he can’t help feeling _lesser_.

Sometimes, when he rolls atop you, he watches your eyes glow fever-gleam bright in the near darkness and he thinks about putting his hand to your throat, about how it would feel to watch your expression fall into one of fear. So he does – his golden hand reaching out as if in a trance, cool fingers brushing along the side of your neck, and you smile at him, and give this godawful giggle at how cold the metal of his fingers are, and that alone makes his cock twitch more than any image of your fear-dimmed gaze ever could.

Your kisses are always hungry, tongue sliding against his, sharp little teeth nipping at his lip and tearing a growl from his throat. It makes him light-headed to feel your lips moving against his, whispering his name over and over, “Lucio Lucio _Lucio_” as your fingers scrabble at his pants, desperate for him to claim you.

He’s never known it could be like this – it’s always been lust, or anger, or just plain old boring duty, and neither duty nor lovely, cold Noddy had ever given him any heirs anyway.

It’s both embarrassing and ridiculous how he can’t seem to keep his hands off you. He takes you everywhere, or tries his damned best to at any rate. One day he’s hiking your skirts up against the wall as you laugh and push at his chest, whispering, “Think of the _servants_,” and yet not really doing anything to stop him as his hands fumble clumsily beneath the layers and layers of fabric. Another day he tosses his quill down as you sit by him, nibbling on your bottom lip as you consider grain and exports and other dull matters, and lifts you onto the desk before him with an iron grip on your hips.

It’s your eyes, he thinks, that clear, kind gaze that looks right past his armour of arrogance and base pleasures to the uncertain man beneath. It’s the way they shine as he pushes into your tight heat with a low, guttural groan and lowers his mouth to yours. It’s trust, and it leaves him powerless.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever know what to make of you – only that he loves your strength and your magic. He loves your impatience and your kindness, your impertinence and your loyalty. He loves the warm slide of your skin against his, the curve of your tempting lips and the slick wetness between your legs, all for him, _only_ for him.

Really, he just loves you. He really does.


End file.
